


What Makes Him Tick

by mydeira, Sadbhyl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-03
Updated: 2010-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-15 14:52:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydeira/pseuds/mydeira, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sadbhyl/pseuds/Sadbhyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock’s up to something and John aims to find out what.  Or maybe it's the other way around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Makes Him Tick

  
Sherlock was up to something.  Well, to be fair, Sherlock was always up to something unless he was fending off one of his fits of boredom.  John much preferred when Sherlock was up to something, even if it might not bode well for John.

“Must you persist with this nonsense?” Sherlock asked from where he lounged on the couch, wearing a suit and not pajamas, generally a good sign.

John shrugged on his jacket.  “Yes, that side job I do to pay our rent between cases is quite a bit of nonsense, isn’t it?”

Sherlock peeked one eye open and stared him down.  “Sarcasm really doesn’t suit you.”

“Oh, really?” John said dryly and headed for the door.

“You will be home after.”  Not a question.

Sarah was off visiting her family for the week, so he would be home after.  “I suppose you want me to pick up something more than just milk?”

“Only if you want supper.  I won’t.”  
   
“Suit yourself.”  
   
To John’s surprise, Sherlock wasn’t there when he returned home that afternoon.

Taking advantage of Sherlock’s absence, John set about tidying up—in as much as that was possible.  But it was nice to be able to walk across the living room without fear of tripping headlong over God knew what.

He had just settled down with some tea in front of a talk show when Sherlock returned, two large, unmarked bags in hand.  Not even acknowledging John’s presence, Sherlock headed straight to his room.

“I don’t suppose that’s the shopping,” John called after him.  
   
“No.”  The bedroom door slammed shut.  
   
John sighed and reached for the takeaway menu.

There were a few different things he had his eye on, but it all depended whether Sherlock was eating or not.  As there was no case at the moment, he probably would be.  Then again, if he were involved in some project…

Getting up, John walked over and knocked on Sherlock’s door.  “You eating or not?”

Silence.

“Sherlock?”

He thought he heard a clatter of metal from inside.  “Not.”  
   
“Are you all right?”  
   
“Yes, I’m fine.”  His voice was muffled through the door.  “I told you this morning I wouldn’t want supper.”

Only Sherlock would know ahead of time whether he was going to be hungry later on or not.  Still…  “You haven’t eaten since tea yesterday.”

Sherlock’s sigh was unmistakable.  A moment later, he cracked the door open and poked his head out, flushed with a slightly wild look in his eyes.  “I ate while I was out.”

“You did not.”

“Fine.  Order me something for later.  Which you were going to do all along.”  Sherlock disappeared back inside his room.

Irritated now, John knocked again.  “What on earth are you working on?”  
   
“Nothing.  None of your business.”  
   
“That’s never stopped you before.  Usually you do your little projects in the middle of the lounge where they’ll draw the most attention.”

“This is different.”

“Right.”  Shaking his head, John left Sherlock to whatever it was he was doing.  John would find out eventually.  It was just a matter of time.

***

John had long since finished his food and was well into working on his blog redesign—since he actually did use it and people were reading it, something a bit less plain was probably in order—when Sherlock emerged, only to disappear into the bathroom.  The shower started up a short time later.

John barely paid attention when Sherlock came in, hair damp and robe loosely tied, looking for something.  
   
It wasn’t until he glanced up that he noticed the contusions covering Sherlock’s chest.  
   
“Good God, what happened to you?”  John was on his feet, medical training kicking in.

Sherlock’s brows drew together in genuine confusion, then he followed John’s gaze.  “Oh, that.  Nothing I didn’t want.”  He frowned.  “You haven’t seen my riding crop, have you?”

“I, um…”  John knew he shouldn’t be surprised by anything Sherlock did at this point.  “Riding crop?”

“Clearly you did some tidying up earlier.”  Scattering magazines about, Sherlock pretty much undid what little John had managed.  “You must have seen it.”

“No, I… It wasn’t here when…  I’m sorry, wanted it?”  
   
Sherlock looked around, more irritated than anxious.  “I must have left it…  Well, never mind.”  
   
“What did you mean, you wanted it?”

“Why else would one go to a sex club?”

John’s brain shorted out for a second.

Sherlock kept talking.  “I wasn’t about to spend a small fortune on paraphernalia I might not like.”

“Yes, right, of course.”  Still dazed, John sat.  He’d never thought of Sherlock in a sexual context before, outside the “getting off on cases” sense.  Okay, he hadn’t not never thought about—Christ, he couldn’t even make sense in his own head.  “Sex club?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in his habitual “Why is the rest of the world so slow?” expression.  “Yes, John, sex club.  Whatever happened to ‘It’s all fine’?”

“It  _is_ all fine,” John said hurriedly.  “I just thought, well…I don’t know.”

“You thought that I was above sex?”  Sherlock’s fine lips curved into a smirk.  “You did!”

“Of course not!  It’s just that…well, a little, maybe?”

“The pursuit of physical gratification might not rule my life, but that doesn’t mean I don’t indulge.  Not to mention that it’s cheaper than…other habits.  Depending.  Today, not so much.”

“Right, well, um…good for you, then.”  One of these days, John would learn to keep his mouth shut.  Though that rarely worked with Sherlock.  If you didn’t ask the question on your mind, he’d figure it out and tell you the answer regardless.

Which he proceeded to do.  Tugging the robe open, he tenderly prodded one of the heavy bruises that disappeared beneath his low slung pajama pants.  “She was new.  She doesn’t have much experience at it.  Her hand was too heavy, and she didn’t have the knack of pulling it back at the last second to avoid—”  
   
“Thank you, that’s quite enough of that imagery.”

“John, your pupils are dilated more than can be attributed to the poor lighting in here, and your respiration has also increased.  Though your current position makes it impossible to tell for certain, I’d wager good money that you’re on your way to becoming quite aroused.”

“I am no—”  John very much was.  “You’re insufferable.”

Sherlock grinned.  “Not long ago you would have called me brilliant.”

He recalled that conversation as well.  “Piss off.”

“I could,” Sherlock drawled.  “But then you wouldn’t find out what I’ve been up to since I got home.”

John held his hands up.  “I really don’t want to know.”  
   
“Yes, you do.  You’re dying to know.”  
   
“I’m not.”  
   
“You are.”  
   
“Can we stop this before it devolves into complete childishness?”

“I’m perfectly willing to stop.”

John took a deep breath and exhaled as he got to his feet.  “Fine.  Show me.  Then we’re never talking about this again.”  Thinking about it was another matter entirely.  That it appealed to something deep inside him…

“If that’s what you <i>want</i>, John.”  Looking far too innocent and casual for the current situation, Sherlock headed to his room and left John to follow.

Which he did.  He always followed in the end.

He’d never been in Sherlock’s room before, nor vice versa.  The public spaces of the flat were just that, open to anyone, including Mrs. Hudson and anyone she let in the house.  But their bedrooms had been, without any intentional discussion on their parts, sacrosanct.  Considering the conversation they had just had, or were possibly still having, he had no idea what to expect.

The dark colors and rich fabrics were very Sherlock.  Much to John’s surprise, however, the room wasn’t an utter tip.  While far from neat and orderly, it was considerably more livable than their living room tended to be.  Perhaps due to the fact that Sherlock spent so little time in here.

John’s eyes finally settled in a relatively empty corner.  Relatively empty save for the sturdy wooden structure that stood there.

“That’s what I’ve been working on,” Sherlock said in a low voice beside him.

John looked anywhere but the corner.  He really didn’t want to think about why Sherlock had spent the better part of the afternoon fashioning a St. Andrew’s Cross.

Sherlock was too close, making all the hairs on John’s neck stand on end.  He couldn’t escape, as Sherlock stood between him and the door.

“You know exactly what that is.”  John shivered as Sherlock’s words danced across his skin.

Knowing there was no point in evasion, John nodded.

Then Sherlock was in front of him, gaze discerning as always.  “You don’t just know, you’ve used it, too.”

John swallowed.  “A few times.”  Maybe some day he’d get used to the fact that there were no secrets from Sherlock.

“Still waters run deep.”  Sherlock backed slowly away, the robe cascading down lean muscles and pale skin to reveal the full extent of damage the girl’s inexpert hand had wrought earlier.

John caught himself in mid-step as he approached Sherlock to conduct a closer inspection.  When he dragged his eyes away from Sherlock’s marked flesh, John found the man grinning like the proverbial Devil.  A piece of the puzzle slid into place.  “You chose a novice on purpose.”

“Did I?”

John stopped fighting himself and closed the small distance between them.  He ran the tip of his index finger along a purplish welt that ran along the lower curve of Sherlock’s ribcage.  Skin and bone and little else to cushion the blow.  “This made your eyes sting.  And you considered telling her to stop, but it was still too early in the session.”

“Session?  You sound like an expert.”

“I know wounds.  And, yes, I have a passing familiarity with the terminology.”

“Very deep.  So tell me, Doctor, why did I do it?”

John didn’t look away, tracing mark after mark.  “To forget.”

“Are we talking about me?  Or you?”  There was no censure in his voice, only curiosity.

“I did it to escape.”  He should have known Sherlock would have found out.  He always did.

“It’s the same thing, in the end.”

“It can be.”  John circled around to inspect Sherlock’s back.  Broad but not bony.  Sherlock was a deceptively skinny man, height concealing the strength running through him.  Among the fresher marks were faint scars and light freckles.  “It’s the only way you can really let go.”

“Almost,” Sherlock corrected.  “Almost let go.  There’s a level of…trust that has been lacking so far.”

“Paying some inexperienced girl in a sex club can have that effect.”

“I have never been able to find anyone better.”

John ran a blunt nail across an unmarked patch of skin on Sherlock’s lower back.  The hiss it elicited was exquisite.  “Now really isn’t the time to lie to me, Sherlock.”

“I’ve never found anyone better until now,” he admitted instantly.

This was becoming heady.  ”Why me?”

“That should be rather obvious.”

“To you.”  John pressed his thumb against a particularly noteworthy bruise resting along the right iliac crest.  Sherlock actually moaned.  Very faint, but unmistakable.  “But for a mere mortal such as myself…”

“You know me, better than anyone ever has.  I trust you because of that.  In spite of that.”

John understood, as his shrink had pointed out on far too many occasions.  “And you couldn’t just come out and ask me to do for you because?”

“Sometimes subterfuge is needed to cut through the bullshit.”

“Or it’s too hard for you to admit you actually need something from anyone.”  
   
“Or that.”

John tugged at the drawstring barely holding Sherlock’s pajama bottoms on his lean hips.  They glided down long legs to puddle on the floor.  Sherlock wore no pants, as John had long suspected, and the marks from his session at the club continued down his legs.

“If I decide to go forward with this, I ask one assurance from you.”  John caressed the surprisingly unblemished curve of Sherlock’s ass.

“Just one?”

“One.”

“All right.”

Moving in front of Sherlock and holding his gaze, John spoke.  “From this point on you’re mine to mark and mine alone.”

To John’s surprise, it took Sherlock a moment to nod hesitantly.  
   
“What do you want from me, Sherlock?”  John didn’t challenge or accuse.  It was a simple, unadorned question.  
   
He licked his lips, eyes drifting closed in anticipated ecstasy.  “Hurt me, John.  Hurt me enough to make me stop thinking.”

The request brought with it an intense flare of arousal.  Jesus.

John gently guided Sherlock over to the St. Andrew’s.  Binding him to the polished wood, John said, “Safe word.”

Sherlock shook his head.  “Unnecessary.”

John pulled the right ankle strap extra tight.  “It’s very necessary.  It also wasn’t a request.”

Sherlock looked as though he wanted to argue, but stopped himself, remembering what they were about.  “Mycroft,” he said finally.  
   
“Mycroft will work fine.”  Ankles restrained, John stood up to work on Sherlock’s arms.  “Now what was in those bags you brought in?”

“A new set of restraints for the cross and assorted other supplies.”

With Sherlock effectively strapped to the wooden beams, John caught a handful of his thick hair and tugged back.  “Not good enough.  Specifics, Sherlock.”

Sherlock tongue darted across his lips and he swallowed.  “Paddles—one leather studded, the other simple wood.  Cat o’ Nine, lubricant, condoms, a vibrator that caught my eye.  I considered a whip, but the area is too constrained for effectiveness in here.  And if I’d known my crop had gone missing, I would have picked up another.”

“You knew all along, didn’t you?”  He didn’t let him answer.  “Of course you did.  Bloody Sherlock Holmes knows everything.”  
   
“You could still say no.”  
   
“No, I can’t.  I haven’t been able to say no to you since the first moment we met.  And you knew it.  You were counting on it.”

“I was relatively certain that your response would be favorable.”

“Relatively certain.  Which is why you spent L200 on S&M equipment?”

“It was only L50.  The proprietor owed me a favor.”

“Of course he did.  So where are they?”  
   
“Where is…”  
   
“The paddles, the lash, all of it.  Where are they?”

“Top dresser drawer.”

Releasing Sherlock finally, John went over to the antique chest of drawers to inspect.  In addition to the items Sherlock had purchased, there was a wide array of other restraints, including several pairs of police issue handcuffs.  Retrieving a pair, he asked, “So you take Lestrade’s cuffs in addition to his IDs when he annoys you?”

Sherlock craned his neck around as his current position would allow.  “No, those all belong to Sergeant Donovan.”

“I really don’t want to think about that too closely.”  Instead of any of those items, though, he pulled open the next drawer and took out a well-tooled, narrow leather belt.  “I think this for starters, don’t you?”  
   
Sherlock’s nostrils flared.

John smiled at Sherlock’s reaction.  The belt fit comfortably in John’s hand and he doubted Sherlock would be able to wear it in the future without reminding them both of this moment

John folded the leather strap double and snapped it, sending a satisfying crack echoing through the room.  “You want it to hurt?”  
   
Sherlock’s vibrant baritone had dropped even lower as he turned his head forward again.  “Oh, yes.”  
   
John didn’t hold back.  There was no point.  The doubled straps of leather snapped against bare skin, making Sherlock gasp.  
   
“How did you know?”  John struck again, this time on the other side.  “How did you know I’d done this before?”

Sherlock exhaled slowly.  “You’re a military doctor.  It makes perfect sense.”

Leather met skin once more, hard enough to make Sherlock jump in his restraints.  “Explain.”

“You show respect to your superiors and follow orders like a good soldier, yet your rank and position requires spur of the moment creative thinking.  Unpredictable problems that require solutions that don’t follow the chain of command or come from a book.  You can conform but you require an outlet.  Which leaves your private life.”

“You think all medical doctors are into S&M?”  
   
“Also, my riding crop is missing.”

“So?”

“It didn’t go missing until the last evening you spent over at Sarah’s.”

“You can’t think I used it on her.”  
   
“No, I think you used it on an attractive young man at a club called Noche down in Southwark, where I spent a few hours this afternoon.”  After John struck him once more, Sherlock added, “But she wanted you to.”

“You don’t know that.”  
   
“Of course I do, John.  And in your heart, you know it, too.  Which is why you went to Noche.  This time.”  
   
He was losing control, which was dangerous in this situation.  Sherlock had enough marks on him already without John adding to them in anger.  He needed to stop this now before—

“You won’t break me, John.”

John landed the next blow with enough force to make Sherlock cry out from the impact.  “I can.”  He struck equally hard, hoping Sherlock would use the safe word, praying that he wouldn’t.

“You can but you won’t.”

“Why do you have to know so much?  Why do you have to know so.  Bloody.  Much?”  Each word was emphasized by another stroke.

“Because that’s who I am,” Sherlock responded through gritted teeth.  “Now don’t stop until I tell you to.”

John dropped the belt.  “That’s not how this works, Sherlock.” Returning to the dresser, he whipped out a necktie which he used to gag Sherlock, cinching the gray silk tight against his dark curls.  “I tell you what to do, not the other way around.”  
   
He decided to use the cat o’ nine next.  The more diffuse sensation would serve as the perfect contrast to the belt.  While John kept the pacing unrelenting, he kept the force of the blows random and varied.  Too hard for too long and the subject grew desensitized.

Sherlock fought against his bonds, whether from eagerness or escape John couldn’t be sure.  Even around the makeshift gag, his moans had turned <i>basso profundo</i>, reverberating over John’s skin.  They were both perspiring.  Sherlock’s opalescent skin glistened with it, adding sting to each strike of braided, knotted leather.

The skin of Sherlock’s back and thighs was well past rosy when John finally paused, adding a faint camouflage to the marks Sherlock had received at the club.  John’s left hand was perfectly steady as he reached out to touch his work.  The heat radiated off Sherlock, and John gave into impulse and leaned in and ran his tongue along a particularly fierce looking weal that crossed Sherlock’s spine.

Sherlock shuddered.  
   
The combination of heat and salt and reaction were intoxicating.  Crouching, John took another taste along Sherlock’s hip.  
   
Sherlock’s head fell back as he moaned to the ceiling.

John continued, tracing this mark and that, taking his time in a wandering exploration.

While Sherlock had been incredibly pliant when hard blows rained down upon him, John’s more tender touch seemed to set him on edge, muscles tensing.

“Pain is easy for you, isn’t it?”  John continued mapping every mark on Sherlock’s back, his hands slipping around to caress over his belly, coarse black hairs rough under surgeon hands.  “Tenderness, now that’s something you can’t reason for.”

The gag robbed Sherlock of his most dangerous weapon.  He couldn’t give voice to the multitude of thoughts whirling through his brain.  All he could do was shake his head and let out a frustrated grunt.

It also robbed him of the ability to choose.  ”Do you want me to stop?”

Sherlock hesitated before slowly shaking his head.

“Good,” John said and resumed his attentions.

This was going to go too far.  John knew it rationally, but at this point the only thing that could get him to stop was one word or an equivalent gesture from Sherlock.

He ghosted his lips over the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

“We can’t go back from this,” he murmured, inhaling the musky clean scent of Sherlock.  But did it matter?  Everyone had assumed it from the very beginning.  Known before they had.

Weakly, Sherlock shook his head again.

“How far are we going?”

He paused a moment, then nodded.

“Of course you’d say that.”

He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes piercing despite everything.  They both wanted this, and he called John on it without speaking a word.

The current scene wasn’t conducive to what John wanted to do, so he set about freeing Sherlock from the cross, legs first.  He wasn’t entirely surprised to find that Sherlock had gotten out of the arm restraints by the time he finished.

“You’re just humoring me.”  
   
Turning to lean against the struts, unconcerned with his nudity, Sherlock shook his head.  
   
“Is this for you or for me?”  
   
Sherlock reached up to remove the gag, then hesitated and looked to John for permission.  When John nodded, he removed it and began unknotting it, working his jaw.  “Is there a reason it has to be one or the other?”

“No, it really doesn’t.”  There was something oddly comforting in that fact.

Sherlock’s gaze moved over him.  “You’re still dressed.”

John smirked.  “Problem?”

“I thought…”  Sherlock hesitated.  
   
“You thought you had me figured out.  No, Sherlock, I don’t usually fuck my partners during a session.  If that’s what you want, you’re going to have to actually ask for it.  Nicely.”

One of Sherlock’s eyebrows arched up, lips curving into a slow smile.  “And if I want to fuck you?”

John folded his arms over his chest.  “I don’t believe that’s on offer at the moment.”  
   
“At the moment.  Implying it might be in the future.”  Sherlock pushed off the cross and came towards him, head down but those cat-like eyes never looking away until he brushed his lips across John’s ear.  “Please, John.  Nothing would make this evening better for me than to finish it with your cock up my ass.”  
   
Despite the shiver the feel of his mouth on John’s skin sent through him, John looked at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.  “You call that asking nicely?”

“How often have you heard me say ‘please’?”

“I think I’m stuck at ‘cock up my ass’.”

“You’d rather I said plunge your tumescent manhood into the seat of my pleasure?”  Sherlock being Sherlock managed this with a straight face and even tone of voice.

John gaped at him.

“Too much?”

He snorted.  “That was the most painful thing I have ever heard.”

Sherlock grinned that brilliant, wicked smile he got when he knew he was being a naughty boy and leaned closer to grab the dresser, pinning John between his arms.  “Which doesn’t make it any less true.”  He seemed to be trying to read John’s prior lovers in the curve of his lips.  “Please, John.”  This time it was softer, more sincere.

“God, yes,” John said.

John would never be certain who initiated the first kiss, although he suspected it was Sherlock.  It was tightly controlled, exploratory, demanding but not frenzied.  When they broke apart, Sherlock resting his forehead against John’s, John was surprised to find his shirt open and long, delicate fingers exploring the outlines of his chest.

He shivered when Sherlock traced over the scar left by the bullet that had torn through his shoulder.

“Scars are far better than any medal,” Sherlock mused quietly, his breath mingling with John’s.

“Medals hurt less.”  
   
“Medals are for dead men.  Scars remind you you’re alive.”  With that, he tugged down the left side of John’s shirt and dipped his head, running the flat of his tongue across the puckered skin.

“Jesus…”

John felt Sherlock’s smile.  “A medal wouldn’t get me that kind of response, would it?”

It had been too long, and this man knew him too well.  “Did we change roles somewhere?  Are you now suddenly in charge?”

“Who says I haven’t been in charge all along?”

“Even you’re not that good.”

This time Sherlock wasn’t hesitant at all, swiping his tongue up the crest of John’s ear.  “Oh, I am.”

John caught the hair at Sherlock’s nape, tugging his head back so John could look him in the eye.  “No, you’re not.  You’re human and male.  Intellect and higher thinking will always lose out against that in the end.”

“Prove it.”

“I don’t have to.  You’re proving it for me.”  To emphasize, he cupped Sherlock’s erection.

“Easy enough to ignore.”

“Right.”  John curled his fingers around Sherlock’s shaft, stroking lightly as he spoke.  “So I can fuck you into the mattress and you’ll remain perfectly above it all, higher brain functions intact?”

“Yes.”

“Liar. You’re the one who wanted this, not me.”  
   
Sherlock continued tasting along John’s neck.  “So, you _don’t_ want it?”  He copied John’s demonstration, proving John was as hard under his fly as Sherlock was.

“I never said I didn’t.  But I’m not the one claiming to be able to override intense physiological responses, am I?”

“Will it be intense, John?”

“Only one way to find out.”  John initiated the kiss this time, foregoing subtle and slow for hungry fueled by no small amount of irritation at Sherlock’s arrogance.  Which he’d probably intended all along, damn him.

John urged Sherlock back towards his bed.

Sherlock’s bed was a double, old fashioned with four posters.  Probably one of Mrs. Hudson’s leftovers.  Sherlock certainly couldn’t be bothered to go furniture shopping.  But that was fine.  It worked well with John’s plans.

John pushed Sherlock onto the bed and quickly finished undressing.

Sherlock reclined, perfectly at ease.  “You really think tying me to the bedposts is going to help?”

“I know a pair of handcuffs won’t hold you.”  He pulled two pairs of the cuffs out of the drawer, as well as the lube and condoms, before turning back.  “But if you get out of them, we’re done.  Not just this, but that.”  He nodded at the cross.

“It’s really not necessary.”  
   
“Yes, it is.”  He set the objects on the bedside table, trying to emulate Sherlock’s comfort with nudity with only partial success.  “If I give you an inch, you take over.  So let’s be perfectly clear on this.  Out there, I’m happy to be your sidekick, your sounding board, your secretary, whatever.  In here, like this, I’m in charge.  You do what I say, no matter what.  Or we’re done, and you can go back to Noche for your bruises.”  
   
“You didn’t leave any bruises.”  
   
“No, I didn’t.  Now what’s it going to be?”

“You’re the one calling the shots, shouldn’t you already know?”

John stared him down.

Sherlock sighed.  “The answer is yes, John.  I accept your terms.”

Secretly, John was relieved, both by Sherlock’s answer and his humor.  He hadn’t realized how much he needed this until Sherlock offered it to him.  “Hands.”  
   
Sherlock promptly stuck out long, wiry arms, wrists cocked to welcome the cuffs.

John slid the metal around each of Sherlock’s wrists and corresponding bedposts in turn, tight enough so he couldn’t easily slip out, but not too tight as to create discomfort.

Their chests collided, sending spikes of arousal shooting through John, although he schooled his features.  But Sherlock watched in that evaluating, amused way he had, telling John he was fooling no one.

He contemplated restraining Sherlock’s legs as well, but there were more options with them free.  However, there was one more thing John wanted to do.  “Don’t move,” he instructed, as he climbed off the bed and padded out in the living room.  Fortunately the item he was after was easy to locate and he returned a short time later.

Sherlock’s gaze settled on his scarf.  “I do have a perfectly good blindfold in the drawer.”

“Are you telling me what to do?”

“Sorry.”  He didn’t look the least contrite.

John realized he had lost his tenuous control of the situation.  But he couldn’t get it back this way. 

He cinched the cashmere scarf over Sherlock’s eyes and slipped out to fetch a pair of his own pajama pants as well as the missing riding crop.  He needed to get Sherlock out of his own head, and pain seemed to be the best way to do it.

Sherlock was murmuring softly to himself when John returned.  It took a moment to figure out that Sherlock was going through a progression of musical notes.

“It’s _Bolero_ , if you’re curious,” he said as he tried to blindly locate where John was.

John didn’t say a word as he brought the riding crop down across Sherlock’s right thigh, catching just the inside of his left.

Sherlock roared, more in surprise than pain.  When John smacked him again below his navel, that was actual pain.

Sherlock’s hands twitched in the cuffs as he seemed to debate the merits of remaining where he was.

John struck again.  “There’s a safe word for a reason, Sherlock.  Anything else puts a stop to this entire venture.”

“I’m not interested in stopping.  I’m enjoying observing the process.” 

“What process?”

“You. Losing yourself like this.  Mild mannered Dr. John Watson, succumbing to the pleasures of the sadist.”

“It’s not succumbing if you never denied yourself in the first place. My sister’s an alcoholic, remember?  I’ve seen firsthand what happens when you don’t properly manage your inclinations.  Abstention is every bit as harmful as overindulgence.”

“So you’re saying you only bring this out for special occasions?  I’m touched.”

John brought the crop down three times in rapid succession.  “You’ll be more than touched by the time I’m through with you.”

Sherlock moaned, long fingers wrapped around the chains of his cuffs, half for leverage and half restraint.  
   
John leaned down to lick at the red stripe he’d left on Sherlock’s belly, the head of his cock nudging against John’s cheek.  Then, just to keep him off balance, he licked that as well.

Sherlock shuddered.  “Fuck, John…”

“All in good time.”

It built to a pattern:  a strike of the crop, a lick, a suckle on his cock, over and over and over again.  It was never the same, the strikes hitting different parts of his body, the licks haphazard, the attentions to his cock exploring the whole length of it.  John knew he had Sherlock mindless again when the words stopped, leaving only guttural moans and harsh breathing, his body writhing on the mattress.

The needs of the body always ruled in the end, and John’s were getting more difficult to ignore as he continued to work on Sherlock.  He was tempted to bring Sherlock off like this, blows and blow job combined to drive him over the edge, but John wanted more.  And damn if he couldn’t stop thinking about what fucking Sherlock would be like.  John wouldn’t pass that up for anything.

Trading out the lube for the crop, John continued mouthing along Sherlock’s genitals as his slick fingers began probing at the tight pucker of Sherlock’s ass.

If it registered that things were changing, Sherlock’s only response was to spread his legs in invitation.  
   
That was enough for John.  He shoved his sleep pants off, the modesty they offered no longer needed, and rolled the condom in place before mounting the bed.  Sherlock had stilled, bending his knees and tipping his hips up, making it all too clear that he wanted this as much as John did.  
   
John was happy to give it to him.  Inch by slow inch.  
   
It was agony for John to take so much time entering, but it was worth it for the tortured wails of denied pleasure it wrenched from Sherlock.

There was just one thing missing.  John reached up and pulled he scarf from Sherlock’s eyes.  “Look at me, Sherlock,” he commanded, surprised by how steady his voice came out.

Those disturbingly pale eyes opened, blinked twice and then locked onto his with laser-like precision.  They never shifted even as the two of them found a slow, ferocious pace to fuck to.  John knew Sherlock was reading a million different things in him, but he didn’t care.  He needed the man to see him while they did this.  Now more than ever, he didn’t want to keep any secrets.

Unfortunately, they were both too much on edge to last for long.  Sherlock came first, seizing hard beneath and around John, which pulled John over soon after.

Sweaty and breathless, they lay there, John’s head resting on Sherlock’s rising and falling sternum as he tried to muster enough motivation to move.

John wasn't surprised in the least when Sherlock folded his arms around him.  
   
He looked up, still breathless.  "You okay?"  
   
"Fine.  You?"  
   
"Beats chasing a cab through Westminster."

“But we still ended up just as out of breath.”  
   
“True.”  
   
John groaned as he withdrew, unable to maintain the contact any more.  He tossed the condom and went back to check his handiwork.  Red welts crisscrossed Sherlock’s pale skin, but none of them would leave bruises.  “No more inexperienced beatings, Sherlock.  You want it, you come and ask me.”  
   
“Nicely.”  
   
John grinned.  “Yes, nicely.”

“I suppose I can handle that.” Sherlock caught John’s wrist and tugged him back on the bed. “Now for my one requirement.”

“Tell no one?”

“They talk already.”

“True. So?”

“You stay when we’re done.”

“I suppose I can handle that.”  To be honest, John was content to sink back onto the mattress next to Sherlock.  
   
They lay next to each other, drifting into the comfortable lethargy after sex, one another’s presence enough contact for the moment.  John felt the need to clarify something, though.  “I’m still going to see Sarah.”  
   
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”  
   
“Good.”  
   
“You should invite her around.  I’m sure she’d be fascinated to see this side of you.”  
   
“I doubt that.”  
   
Sherlock turned his head and cocked an eyebrow at him.  
   
“No.  She wouldn’t…  Does she?”  
   
He smirked, turning his head back.  “Only one way to find out.”


End file.
